Outlast II: The Murkoff Account
by Zelda48
Summary: The trans national Murkoff corporation tirelessly pushes the frontier of scientific research. In the event of mistake or oversight the Murkoff Insurance Mitigation Department comes in to minimize economic fallout. Mitigation officers are damage control. They are not here to save lives or help people, they are here to make sure it doesn't cost the company any more than it has to.
1. Chapter 1

[P.O.V. Paul Marion]

It wasn't supposed to turn out like this. But then again, none of it was. Everything had gone wrong. Horribly, disastrously wrong. In a matter of months I had seen things I wasn't supposed to see. Men ripped apart, blood and gore everywhere. I hoped to god I'd never see such things again. Part of it was my fault. I had done things I was not supposed to do. I had broken every rule in the book, literally and figuratively. Laws were nothing but a nuisance to be circumvented or tied up in litigation. Taxes were a joke. They always had been during my four years at the Murkoff Corporation. As part of Murkoff's Insurance Mitigation Department team, I'd helped them write the book on how to beat the rap and avoid accountability for their endless crimes. From day one I was told my job wasn't to save lives, it was to save money, and lots of it. I performed well and Murkoff rewarded me. I was a senior partner in deceit and now I'm… _no me and the corporation… the whole damn shitshow's going down in flames._ I thought I'd make it out okay, just a short time ago. There was no evidence of my crimes. The cover-up was masterful. I had ten thousand dollars in my pockets and a one-way ticket to Sweden. Blue skies, beautiful girls, a quiet house by the sea, ah yes…

It was my way out, until someone found out about it.

I groan and press the towel against my bloodied eyeball. The entire left half of my face has been savaged and all I can see out of it is a red haze. So much blood… it seeps through the towel, which serves as a rudimentary compress for my wounds, runs through my hands and trickles down my arm. Sh*t. I fumble with it for a moment, attempting to find a dry patch somewhere, but the whole thing is soaked through with blood. I give up on readjusting the towel and press it tight against my face. But it does nothing to mitigate the pain. The eye is moving again. Dinging, gouged from the socket by a vicious attack it threatens to plunge half my vision to the floor every few seconds. Heh…that would be my luck. Someone once told me that you couldn't move one eye without moving the other. They were right. It's a new experience in pain every time my left eye moves, scraping against my fleshless socket, bringing the retina in contact with charred bone. I try to look straight ahead as I search for an exit. I haven't found it yet. Liberty Mutual in Virginia is a big place and it's not every day you walk out with someone else's money. Ten thousand dollars of it.

The money, all in twenties for some damn reason, lines my coat pockets. Damn it, I curse myself again for not bringing along a suitcase for the job. Things would have been so much easier that way. But I didn't have the time to pack. I had to get in and get out, and get out fast. What doesn't fit in my pockets is clinched tightly in my hand, the one not holding the towel, like it's the only thing keeping me going. In a way it is. Someone is after me and I don't know who. I suspect they're from Murkoff since they know I did it. I screwed them and now they're coming to screw me. The money is substantial, enough to buy anyone for a quick favour in case I need to disappear. I have about four hundred in the palm of my hand. I counted it in the vault: twenty twenties partially bloodied and accounted for. I didn't think I'd have the time to count it all but at Murkoff we had grown highly efficient at counting the money. Especially me. We were part of a vulture capitalist corporation after all; making the big bucks off human suffering was a lucrative enterprise. It was what we did. Now it's over and the corporation is being destroyed by their own sh*t, along with a few surprises I left behind. A chill runs down my spine when I think of the Walrider. A monster created by the mad doctors at Mount Massive in a science experiment gone too far, it is one of the many driving forces for my escape.

Somehow I find the exit, stumble outside and hail a taxi with my wad of cash. He quickly pulls alongside me and I hop in.

"Jesus dude, what happened to your face?" the driver asks, taken aback by my appearance. I ignore him and thrust two twenties in his face.

"Don't talk just drive." I say. He looks at me with a mix of curiosity and revulsion. It must be the blood. There sure is a lot of it. Maybe he's worried about me messing up his taxi I think. Couldn't imagine why. Anyway that's none of my concern. I dish out another twenty for the boy. "Make it sixty. Can you get me to Langley in a half hour?"

This softens him up a little and he stops cringing, "Yes sir." He takes the money.

"I'm in a hurry." I say.

"Yes sir."

Several minutes, maybe a half hour later I'm not sure, but I finally arrive outside FBI headquarters in Langley. The large seal on the grey-brick building noted FEDERAL BUREAU OF INVESTIGATION would be hard to miss, even for someone like me. It's hard to describe the emotions I felt when I found it. A way out. My last and only chance to avoid an early demise. The closest thing that comes to mind is relief, pure sweet, joyous relief. No more lies, no more cover-ups, no more grisly deaths. A clean slate, nearly. Even life in prison is looking good at this point, although I never thought it would. I thank the driver and hand him another twenty.

"No problem man." He says, slightly less nervous than before. I nod and bade him well. I know I'll never see him again.

I turn around and lower the towel to get a better look at the place. Bad mistake. I forgot about the thing dangling out of my left eye socket. Blood spurts out of the damn things like a miniature geyser as I hastily replace the towel. Nothing helps. Pain ripples across my face as my vision goes lopsided and blurry. I swear loudly and jam the towel firmly into place, forcing the eye back into the socket with a squish. The blood seeps through the cloth and down my arm but it'll do. My eye stops moving. I bend down and survey my mess like a curious toddler. Blood splattered all over the sidewalk. There's a blood trail that extends all the way from the curb. I feel queasy as I realize how much I've lost. By some miracle I regain my composure and open the door with a partially clenched fist. Some of the twenties in my hand fall to the floor as I do so. I don't care. Ninety six hundred of it is in my coat and that's enough to buy a lot of people. I won't have it for much longer. I'm sure the cameras are catching all of this anyway.

I don't know how long it takes people to notice me, a bloodied mess with a load of stolen cash, staggering out into the FBI lobby with dozens of agents around but it must have been pretty quick. No sooner do I take five steps inside before someone screams. A woman, I think. I'm not sure of anything in my state. I stumble on but others are taking notice. Now a man is shouting something unintelligible. I sway from side to side as I struggle to maintain my balance. The pain is getting to me and the nausea is overwhelming. _Oh god…_ I think I need a doctor.

"Hey you! Are you okay?" a voice says. It's loud and full of concern. It's the man from a moment ago. "Sir, are you okay?" he's in my face now and I see his uniform, a security guard or a police officer, not that I care about the difference.

"The last time I saw someone like you…" I mutter, my voice a strangled croak, "he had his head ripped off…" I cackle and collapse, banging my head against the wall with a splat. More money spills out of my pockets. The pain is unbearable but I can't stop laughing. This guy must think I'm a psychopath. No sir, not me, just the company I work for.

Once again, I'm right. The guard is thoroughly spooked by my little show. "Stop!" he demands, whipping out his gun and pointing it at my forehead, "Let me see your hands!" his voice has grown to a shout, a mix of concern and fear. I stop laughing. "Let me see them!"

"Ahahahaha … haha. O-okay..." I pant, slowly putting my right hand up. More of the money scatters on the floor. I hear several bystanders gasp. Look at all that money.

"Both hands!" the guard shouts, "Put your god damn hands up now!"

"I don't think that's a good idea…" I slur, gesturing to the towel, "I - I need to keep this on my face." Too late. Another wave of pain rattles my skull. I gasp and lean over. The nausea is powerful, seconded only by the throbbing pain around my eye. The world becomes blurry. I think I'm going into shock. For some reason I decide to comply with the guard's demands and release the compress. Both hands are on the air and the towel is splattered on the floor. "I need you to arrest me." I say. But I can't fight the nausea anymore. Before I know it I'm throwing up at the man's feet. He jumps back and grabs his radio. I think he's calling the ER. Someone in a black suit runs over and grabs me around the torso. Lucky him, he arrives just in time to see my eyeball fall out.

"Holy crap I can still see out of that eye." I murmur. It's too much. The whole thing, it's too much for me. Someone lays me gently on the floor and I black out in a pool of blood.

Sometime later I'm in the hospital. My clothes, ragged and blood-soaked khakis are gone, replaced with a pale green hospital gown. The money is gone too, although that was expected. A thick bandage covers much of what's left of my face. I'm in bed with covers pulled up to my torso and an IV in my arm. A monitor on my bedside lists my condition as stable. I watch my heart rate on the screen before I'm convinced. The shades are drawn. Whether it is night or day doesn't matter, I'm still alive and that's what does.

"Good evening Mr. Marion." A man says. He's sitting by my bedside. I briefly wonder how I missed him for the few minutes I've been conscious but I forget about it. I haven't been on top of things lately.

"So it's night after all." I say softly. What do you know?

"It's approximately nine fifteen Mr. Marion." Go figure. He must have a watch. All the government types do. He must be a government type. He had to be. Who else would be in here to see me after all I'd done?

"Please call me Paul." I say.

"Paul it is." The government type replies.

"I assume you're with the bureau."

"Yes."

"You're here to talk about my plea?"

"Such as it is." The government type says, pulling out a file from nowhere. It's my profile, "An officer at Langley found you entering the building suffering severe trauma in your left eye and possessing a sum of approximately ten thousand dollars. The money was stolen, along with another one point nine million wired to an offshore account in Switzerland at Swisse Bank. Is that correct Paul?"

"It is."

He opens the file, "Mr. Paul Marion, born in Cincinnati, passed the Ohio state bar exam, 1987. No current address. You're claiming responsibility for one count of arson, one kidnapping, and fourteen murders."

I nod, affirming my sick track record, "At least fourteen. There might be more."

"We've heard. Investigators found some of the bodies' hours ago, all buried within a mile of Murkoff company headquarters. You were brought to Hartford General Hospital nine hours ago and underwent treatment for six. Your condition was stabilized several hours ago. We've looked and there's circumstantial evidence for the killings but no direct link."

"That's my job." I say.

The government type shrugged, "How were you hurt Paul?"

"That's a long story."

"I'm not going anywhere, given the seriousness of your situation."

"Who are you?" I ask. Names aren't important but I like to know them anyway.

"For the sake of conversation let's say I'm Alex." Alex replies.

"What do you want?"

"The truth." Alex says, "A high level employee of one of the world's largest providers of biological security doesn't simply walk into the bureau, half dead, asking to be arrested for no reason. We've been watching you for some time Paul and we know how you operate. We'd been planning to arrest you for weeks but you came to us first. Tell me about Murkoff. Tell me how you killed fourteen people."

"That could take time too." I reply. A lot of time. And the truth was just as chilling as the fiction.

"Let's hear it."

"I want a lawyer." I say even though I have no intention of getting one. Even Perry Mason couldn't get me out of this mess. But hey, why not have a little fun when I have nothing to lose?

"Go ahead and get one. It won't do you any good." Alex says. He knows, I think, he knows how screwed I am. Why else would he act so relaxed about the possibility of several years of courtroom infighting? Definite proof of my embezzlement of Murkoff will do that. He mentioned the one point nine million, how could he not know of that little crime? There was a noose around my neck all this time and I didn't even know it.

"How much do you know?" I ask. Most of the time I'm one step ahead of the government. I wasn't accustomed to being behind.

"The FBI knows what I said earlier about your financial affairs and everything from the Park videos." Alex explains. Oh yes, the Park videos. How could anyone forget about that damning seven part video series ever since Waylon uploaded it on WikiLeaks? It had shocked the world with its documentation of the massacre at Mount Massive Asylum. Damage control had been a failure. There was no coming back. The fallout had been too great. It was bound to happen someday. Things had been spiralling out of control long beforehand.

"What do I get if I tell you my story?" that's what I was here to tell after all. But I had to do a little horse-trading first.

"A lot."

"Such as?"

"We'll forget about everything but the killings, if you committed them."

"I did it."

"Then that stays on your record."

"Heh." I chuckle. What a deal. "So I get my life sentences but my family walks free?"

"That's the deal." Alex forgets about the file and reaches into his obligatory briefcase and pulls out a thick stack of papers. For show he waves it in front of me. The word INDICTMENT is splashed across the front page in large black letters. I smile in spite of myself. At last, ladies and gentlemen, we have the indictment. A thorough and well-deserved one no doubt. Alex confirms this, "This is an indictment Paul. It charges you with embezzlement of the one point nine million in Switzerland plus an additional two point six million over a period of four years, identity theft, three counts of larceny, tax evasion, and fraud."

"What else?" I ask, surprised at the bureau's knowledge of my years of bogus transactions. I had been very careful about that. I must have gotten sloppy at some point.

"Quite a bit. It's a long list."

"Give me a teaser."

"Complicity in the mistreatment and torture of inmates at Mount Massive Asylum and an active participant in the subsequent cover-up." Alex says, "The Park videos are enough to put you and the rest of Murkoff's personnel in prison for life Paul. And we will gladly do that regardless. You were part of the insurance mitigation division at Murkoff. You had the access and the information to what happened when the morphogenic engine was launched. The FBI sees you as the last remaining key to the truth of what really happened and we'd like to know about it. So would the families."

"The families?"

"The immediate relatives of the people killed who had contact with the Murkoff Corporation." Alex explains. Oh, those families. _Of course_.

"Have you tried talking to Pauline Glick? She was my partner."

"We haven't been able to talk to her."


	2. Chapter 2

[POV: Pauline Glick]

I sit at the table, deep in thought. A plate of food, such as it is, lies in front of me. It's loaded with the best the Murkoff Rehabilitation Center can offer, which just happens to be roughly the same thing every single day: a large steak, several slices of asparagus, and a side of mashed potatoes, although sometimes they are exchanged with a peach. Today it's the mashed potatoes. I have spent the last few weeks here, ever since a particularly dangerous job that's landed by right arm in a sling and me unable to walk. It's not so bad though, I've had a lot of fun running people down in my electric wheel chair when they get in my way. I smile at the thought, I don't do it that much, running people down, but just enough to keep the personnel around here on their toes.

 _Heh..._ The experience has been almost enjoyable as confinement can be, except for one drawback that's made life considerably more difficult for me: the injury to my right hand. A steel plate in the last operation crushed it, a debacle I prefer not to think about, which has left it wrapped in a mountain of bandages and rubbing alcohol. I write, throw, shoot, and most importantly, eat with my right; I never had much use for my left. So far I've managed to sign my name with my other hand but eating is another thing entirely, what if I wish to eat my steak? I need someone to hold it in place whilst I divide it into edible chunks otherwise it goes flying. I know, I've already made a mess of myself several times already. Normally if I need help with my daily meals, or almost anything else, I ring the bright red panic button on the arm of my chair and a nurse attends to my needs within minutes. This time is different. This time, I have visitors.

My curiosity was piqued from the moment I heard that two staff from Murkoff corporate headquarters were coming to visit me. Murkoff had practically done everything but put a bag over my head and send me to some forsaken island in Asia after I escaped from the facility in one piece. I had seen too much, I had been too involved, what if I told someone what I knew? I never would have done that of course, it was not and still am not, in my best interests to screw the people I worked for. Not the way Paul did. I shake my head softly; no I would never do that. The two suits from Murkoff know that too, that's why they're here to talk to me today. The one on the left is tall with short, curly black hair, and has no name. No matter, I decide to come up with one for him. How about Jeff? Yes, I think, that name will suit him fine. The suit sitting across from me on the other hand, is important enough to have a name. He introduces himself as Gary Lane, an investigator from Human Resources. It's about time they sent someone from HR. Of course, he has to talk to me. About what I don't know yet, but I can guess. I'll find out soon enough. I look down at my perfectly laid out plate, complete with the necessary silverware, the knife, spoon, fork, there's even a cup of water, and my stomach emits a low growl. Time to eat, I'm getting hungry.

"I'm going to need a little help here." I say, motioning to my plate with my good arm.

"Happy to lend a hand." Jeff says.

"Please do."

Jeff sits down and grabs the fork. I take the knife and begin cutting up the steak into perfect squares, as he holds the pieces in place per my instructions. Gary Lane, the man from HR, sees his opportunity and launches into his spiel.

"I hope, Ms. Glick, you won't mind talking while you eat?" he says, "The matter is urgent." Of course the matter is urgent. Even from here I monitor the news, especially the stock prices, I know of the disasters occurring at Murkoff. They're facing dozens of lawsuits, many of them from tort barons who saw nothing but opportunity after the debacle at Mount Massive and subsequent disasters, not to mention investigations from the FBI and two congressional committees. Insurance mitigation had been unable to keep Murkoff's numerous sins quiet and word had gotten out. Now, they are hemorrhaging money and the suits in New York have finally decided to send some poor soul from HR to resurrect old ghosts from a forgotten employee to figure out what the hell went wrong. They had better figure it out fast, I think, Murkoff's stock has already tanked from $27.50 to just under $1.05 a share in a month. Even while I'm locked away in Detroit I've heard tell that the investors had grown suicidal. I know it's only a matter of time before someone jumps. I have no intention of letting that happen, I'll stop it, if I can.

"Call me Pauline, please." I say, "And of course, we can talk while I eat."

Gary smiles politely at this, "Good. Where do you want to start?" There are so many places, given company history.

"With the steak please." Jeff impales a neatly cut square of it on the fork and brings it to my mouth. I don't hesitate to comply; this stuff is delicious.

"No I meant..."

"I know what you meant." I say, now that I've finished with the square. Jeff already has another one in place for me. I work on that while Gary talks.

"Do you understand the gravity of this meeting Pauline?" Gary asks, "I'm sure you know about the bind we're in."

Suddenly it was we. Not I, or the Murkoff Corporation, but we. After being hidden away for several weeks by the company I've risked so much to protect, to save an extra buck whenever possible, now I have been brought back into the picture.

"I understand it perfectly Mr. Lane." I say. "You want to know where to find Paul Marion before he does any more harm."

"Yes. And more importantly we need to minimize the fallout from what he's already done."

Of course you do, I think, its not every day one of your most trusted employees goes rouge and kills fourteen people is it? Paul's actions had been terrible but not altogether surprising. There had always been something off about my partner in insurance mitigation.

"Sounds familiar." I say, "More meat please." Jeff complies. Seconds later the steak is history and I'm already eyeing the asparagus. Yesterday it was broccoli, so I welcome the change, I'm much more partial to asparagus.

"We don't know how early his sabotage of the Murkoff Corporation began," Gary continues, "So I'd appreciate it if you'd start at the beginning."

"The beginning? That would be in 2008, six years ago. As soon as we were partnered up at IM they started calling us 'the Pauls'. Paul Marion and Pauline Glick, hilarious. Do you remember the hat box murders?"

Both men shift uncomfortably in their seats at this. They remember. Who could forget them? They had been unusually grisly and brutal, even for murder. It was several moments before Gary finds his voice again, "Yes I remember. What's his name, the - uh Egyptian guy killed all those veterans..."

"Omar, an American." I correct him, "His grandparents were Egyptian. He was born in Newark."

"Ah yes, of course. Would you mind describing how you and Paul found him responsible for the killings?"

"Not at all." I say as I chew on the asparagus, "When we arrived they had just found the third body. One Martin Bellmont. Took them a day to piece him back together. Just like the others, the head was gone." I pause, "I'm sorry is this too graphic for you gentlemen?"

Gary exchanges a look with Jeff. Neither of them says a word. No doubt they're determined to prove that they too, can handle a little violence. I almost laugh at this; I've seen so much blood and guts that it hardly bothers me anymore, talking about it certainly don't.

"Very well. Bellmont was a veteran of Iraq, and like the first two victims, a patient at Spindletop Psychotherapy Clinic in Hattin, Texas. As you know, Murkoff bought Spindletop two years earlier as part of Blair's 'Research Through Charity' initiative. They had a government contract to help our returning veterans cope with PTSD."

"Yes that's company record."

"Right, but we ran into a problem when we arrived."

"What sort of problem?" Gary asks. I pause as Jeff shovels another forkful of food into my mouth, now the asparagus is history too.

"The chief psychotherapist there wasn't already under Murkoff management so we had to give him 'the speech'."

"The speech?"

I smile, "That's right."

...

The body of Martin Bellmont, or what was left of Martin Bellmont lay on the gernie in front of us. Like the other two, he is naked and stitches crisscross the areas where his limbs had been ripped apart, apparently by brute force. For the burial they had been reattached, the man had to have some dignity after all, although the head was still missing. In fact, none of the corpses have heads, which presents several problems, not the least of which is the smell. The awful stench of human insides, exposed at the neck, is overpowering. It makes me want to permanently attach a clothespin to my nose. Somehow the scene doesn't seem to bother my partner in insurance mitigation, Paul Marion, too much. He stands with a blank expression on his chubby face, staring at a picture held in his hand, one of Bellmont provided to us by the family, and then at the body. Back and forth, back and forth, like he isn't sure of something.

"Are you sure this is Bellmont?" he asks.

"That's what the FBI said."

Paul shrugs and says nothing. He quietly pockets Bellmont's photo. He's seen enough and so have I. We aren't detectives, unless we have to be, but we are smart enough to know that these bodies could cause a lot of trouble for Murkoff if anyone got curious about their ties to Spindletop. We leave the morgue and head for the car. I'm driving and Paul, who is currently fiddling with his ever-present yellow tie, will sit quietly and watch the world go by. Conversation, if it happens at all, is brief and short lived.

"It seems unnecessarily brutal doesn't it?" Paul says as I turn the key in the ignition and the Honda Prius, the common choice of Murkoff company cars, roars to life and cruises down the street at twenty miles an hour.

"What seems unnessecarily brutal Paul?"

"Bellmont's murder." he says softly. I nod in agreement. All the murders did. Each of the three victims had been ripped apart, limb from limb, and if they hadn't been stitched back together it'd be impossible to tell one from the next. It was hard enough without the heads. I sigh and try to focus on the dusty road and avoiding potholes, cleaning up grisly messes was the least favorite part of my job. Not that it was a task that anyone would ever enjoy this sort of thing. I'm not here to save lives, I tell myself, I'm here to limit collateral damage. Money. Money. Money. Keep the premiums down. I remind my partner of this but he, characteristically, doesn't say a word. Oh well, this will soon be over, nothing more than another old nightmare swept under the rug. Neutralizing the killer will be difficult though, especially given the viciousness of the killings. Who would be capable of doing such things? I put a hand on the .38 in my holster and thank God I'm armed. So is Paul but I won't need him for now. He's already daydreaming.

We arrive at Spindletop five minutes later. From a glance the outlook is not impressive. It's a drab, run down looking building with blinds over every window. The flimsy wooden door past the porch steps is our only way in. We enter, are given a quick run down by a bored looking guard, and find our way down the narrow corridor to the office of the chief psychotherapist, one of five at the clinic, Dr. Eugene Claymore. The office, seemingly defying the physics of the place, is large and full of junk, the hallmark of a career nerd attempting to compensate for some deficiency with trophies and real estate. It almost works. There's an ego wall littered with degrees and various official papers, all framed, including an enlarged copy of Dr. Claymore's M.D. from Texas A&M University and some achievements in the field of psychology. Paul and I take a seat on the couch behind the ego wall, facing Dr. Claymore at his desk and the obligatory bookshelf of useless tomes serving no purpose other than to impress the odd visitor or two. Also on the shelf are three wood carved statues I don't recognize, although they draw Paul's attention at once, but I can't imagine what significance they have to him. I'm ready to get down to business and I, as has become the case with Paul, will do most of the talking.

"Welcome to Spindletop Psychotherapy." Dr. Claymore says now that we're properly seated. A bony man with long gray-brown hair, glasses, jutted jawline, and mousy voice, the deficiencies he might be trying to compensate for are immediately apparent. But who am I to judge? I miss most of what Dr. Claymore says but fortunately I catch the end, "What can I do for you?"

"We're here on behalf of the Murkoff Corporation after we heard about the recent murders of three of your clients." I say.

"I see. I can't say that I've heard of Murkoffe but -"

"Murkoff." I correct him.

"Yes... Murkoff." Dr. Claymore readjusts his glasses and focuses his full attentions on us, "What's your interest in the killings? Is Murkoff a private detective agency of some kind? Are you here to investigate?"

"No, Murkoff has no interest in crime. Nor are we here to save anybody. The company you work for belongs to a company that belongs to the Murkoff corporation. Accidents and lawsuits raise Murkoff's insurance premiums, and unnecessary expense makes us sad." I lean forward and hand Dr. Claymore my business card, which he takes without a word. "We're damage control. We'll help out as much as we can, but our bottom line is our bottom line. We're legal mitigation, nothing more, nothing less."

Dr. Claymore nods slowly as he takes in this barrage of new information, "So your card says." he drops it on the desk along with the paperwork where it will almost certainly be lost and forgotten.

I press on, "The murdered men were all patients of yours?"

"They were."

"We'll need to see any notes you have on their therapy sessions."

"That's impossible." Dr. Claymore says, "Doctor-patient confidentiality. Unless of course you can provide a warrant like those FBI men did."

We don't have a warrant. That presents a minor problem but it's something we can workaround so I'm not concerned about it. I'm about to continue before Paul, for whatever reason, perhaps he got bored staring at his surroundings, decides to jump into the conversation. Not that I mind, the change in pace is more than welcome.

"We'll need any information you gave to the FBI." Paul says, "We may need to shape your testimony."

Dr. Claymore narrows his eyes at this. He clearly doesn't like what he's hearing, "Now hold on a second..." he says suspiciously. Paul doesn't seem to have heard him. Instead he suddenly appears interested in the winged statues on the doctor's bookshelf.

"Are these Sumerian?" he asks.

Dr. Claymore appears slightly taken aback at the shift in the conversation but he must be mollified by someone taking notice of one of his trophies so he raises no objection, "That's right, Mr. Marion. My patients were damaged while working in the Middle East. Does good to include some Arabic culture, to show it's not all war."

"Who are they?"

"The Apkallu Demi-Gods, given to man to establish civilization and guard against it's destruction." Dr. Claymore explains. Interesting stuff, I think, but what does this have to do with Bellmont and the other victims? Probably nothing at all. Paul's just getting overly curious.

"Like the Nephilim, Genesis 4 'The sons of god came in unto the daughters of men.' Their children the mighty men of renown." Paul adds. I don't know what any of this means but I know it isn't relevant to the task at hand. I decide to steer the conversation back on track,

"With animal heads, Paul. Let's get back on track."

Unfortunately Dr. Claymore is still stuck on the Sumerian Demi-Gods. Paul doesn't seem to mind it but I do, "Some scholars think so." he says, "I like to think it helps our soldiers see Christian and Islamic myths coming from the same place."

"Your reports describe experimental therapy. Reliving and dissecting the event until it stops hurting." I say, "Is that correct?"

Dr. Claymore nods. He's finally looked away from the Demi-Gods and we're back on track. Thank God. "That's where it started, but we began to see negative effects in the therapeutic spiral, psychological wounds would close, then reopen wider as the therapy continued. Our current method is dream therapy. Guided by hypnosis, they can re-experience and release the traumatic events subconsciously, without a burden to the waking mind."

I frown at this, "That seems dangerously close to leading the witness. How do you know you're not shaping the patient's memory?"

"The mind knows what it needs. The therapy was remarkably effective. Rates of substance abuse plummeted, self harm and suicidal thoughts were all but eliminated."

"That sounds great, except for those three homicides. We're going to need to see the consultation transcripts."

Dr. Claymore doesn't budge, "That's impossible." he says, "Get a warrant or talk to the FBI."

I give him a tight smile in return, it's all I can manage other than a hearty "Screw you". He's stonewalling us but it doesn't matter. There are plenty of other sources around Spindletop Paul and I can use to get the information. I glance at the wall behind Dr. Claymore and see one of those sources at once. It's a security camera moving back and forth capturing everything in the room, exactly alike the three others I'd see in the hallway on our way here. _That's it_ , I think, _We don't need consultation transcripts. We have video surveillance._ I stand and thank Dr. Claymore, it's time to go. Paul does the same, somehow managing to put in a good word about the doctor's Chinese clock, before we exit the office, shutting the door in our wake.

Things are already coming together.


	3. Chapter 3

[POV: Paul Marion]

The doctor's face is grim as he addresses Alex, my friendly FBI agent, "We need to operate." he says, "The infection in that eye," he gestures to the bloodied mess of bandages plastered over the left side of my face, "is remarkably aggressive. I suspect it's due to prolonged exposure to a dirty cloth or the like. If we don't address it immediately he could lose vision and some brain function in the temporal lobe."

Alex, to my slight surprise, nods sympathetically as if he'd like nothing better than to accommodate my every need, "Sure, sure. I can just stop by later... when he's conscious..."

When I'm conscious? _When?_ I don't like the sound of this. I came to this tea party after all. I'm going to set the terms for it. "Wait…" I interject as Alex and the doctor confer on what to do with me, "How long will I be unconscious?"

The doctor turns to me as if caught by surprise and scans his clipboard, "Uh, twenty four hours full sedation and probably another thirty six of heavy pain medication." he reads.

Sixty hours of sedation to save some godforsaken memories and an eye that's already been blown to hell? That sounded like a waste of time if there ever was one. No, I'm not here to save myself a little pain or what's left of my vision. Only to stop an assassination. I'm here to tell the world what six previous whistleblowers had failed to tell: the truth, all of it. Today my tenuous relationship with what is real and what is not ends, and I'm just getting started.

I must be taking a lot of time because Alex is suddenly motivated to rejoin the conversation, "Well what do you say Paul?"

I shrug, "I don't mind losing some brain function if it takes memories with it."

"But you will let us operate?" the doctor asks. _Heh_ , the poor guy probably can't wait to cut me open; even the look on his face is wanting. No matter, he'll get his chance soon enough. "Yes. But first I finish my story."

Alex sighs and sits down, pen and paper in hand, "Very well."

...

[POV: Pauline Glick]

My interrogator, Mr. Gary Lane from HR, sips his glass coolly in one of our many 'mini-breaks' from his questioning. Our session, such as it is, is largely over, or it would seem to be that way. My plate, save for the odd morsel or two, is empty. As we reach the two hour mark Jeff sits with little to do and nothing to say whilst Gary finishes off his drink. Testimony-wise the session has been thorough, yet as far as information is concerned we have barely scratched the surface. Perhaps some things are better left swept under the rug. Has Gary decided to let sleeping dogs lie or is his ignorance of Murkoff's crimes limiting his questioning? I wonder...

"Well," Gary says as he wipes his chin with a napkin, "thank you for your time Ms. Glick. As for your meal, I hope you enjoyed it."

"Thank you." I say politely.

"Yes, of course." Gary says, but then he frowns as if he has something more to say. He does, "However... I was under the impression that you were going to tell us about Waylon Park. How he got to Peacock."

Waylon Park. So he's not going to keep everything under the rug is he? I smile at Gary. Is Murkoff finally ready to confront their past? Maybe, but maybe not. With Park they have little choice. He was a software engineer from I.T. at Mount Massive for a few weeks back in 2012. In many aspects Park had been the perfect employee; young, dedicated, brilliant, and seemingly ignorant of what Murkoff was doing in the hospital. Of course, things are not always as they seem and that was the case with Park. The problem with him should have been obvious: he had a conscience.

I sigh and stare at my plate as memories of just how much damage Park's troubled conscience had caused Murkoff, in money and in lives. It was incalculable. Sure the kid had only been trying to do some good, alerting the world to the psychopaths running the asylum, but the company does not reward heroism. Stocks do not go up because of ethics. They never have. They are slaves to the bottom line as are all Murkoff employees. The bottom line and nothing but the bottom line. Anyone with other designs was an outsider, a threat to the company that must be contained, and terminated if necessary. Thankfully termination was not in my line of work, it was messy stuff anyway. Simon Peacock… a strange man. And what of Jeremy Blaire? He had taken it upon himself to destroy Park after he'd discovered what he'd done, first through the morphogenic engine to drive him insane, and then by killing him once the situation got out of control. Everything Blaire did was in the name of profit, the company logs showed as much. Even his death, ripped apart and his insides splattered over the carpet, was all for the sake of protecting what made him rich and powerful. _Very powerful_... men playing God.

"Peacock..." I murmur, "Nothing left but gristle and bone."

Gary seems taken aback at this, "What was that Ms. Glick?"

"Simon Peacock." I say, regaining my composure in an instant, "Of course. Can I ask, how high is your security clearance?"

"Pretty high, we're both alpha gray." Gary says. Jeff, in the first move he's made in a half hour, nods in agreement. Yes, he too, is important.

"I see. What would you say if I said 'eskimo reuben'?"

Gary frowns, "Excuse me?"

"Ah, never mind." I say, clearly these two are not clued in. I decide to spare them the details, some of them at least. There's a lot of space under the rug after all, "Simon Peacock is dead."

"Dead?"

"Very. His story, and Waylon Park's, gets us back to Mount Massive."

Gary brings his notepad and pencil and gives me his full attention. It's question time, "Let's start from the beginning." he says.

"An anonymous employee at Mount Massive complained to Human Resources about safety conditions at the hospital."

Gary nods, "Yes we know."

"Naturally. Marion and I were sent in to find any potentially litigious dangers." That was a time when I knew him as Paul. Our relationship has... chilled since then.

...

Paul and I sit, bent over, at the screen of a Murkoff company computer and read through the latest disaster to arrive at our doorstep at Insurance Mitigation. An email from Mount Massive Hospital to HR. The email is damning and the sender is, unsurprisingly, anonymous. Its implications, if true, could be very costly and the optics from any publicity would undoubtedly be worse. And I'm only halfway through the thing. It reads:

FROM: Anonymous

TO: humanresources

SUBJECT: OSHA Neglect at Mount Massive

SENT: October 4, 2012

I am writing to report security neglect at Mount Massive Charitable Hospital in Mount Massive, CO. Cost cutting and profit have taken precedence over safety in a manner which endangers staff and employees both. It is hard to imagine conditions continuing in such a state without attention from OSHA. As both physical and security measures have been stripped from facilities, staff have been required to resort to difficult measures to resolve any conflict within the hospital. Patients are regularly malnourished and poorly treated while many staff have developed a disturbing taste for brutality. It is a dangerous course.

Please advise.

"Jesus Christ." Paul mutters. I don't reply but I'm inclined to agree. A disturbing taste for brutality? OSHA? The latter is particularly unnerving. The last thing anyone at Murkoff wants is meddling from the government. What would they find if they started looking around? I don't want to think about it.

"This is bad." Paul says, for the third time.

"Do you think its true?"

Paul shrugs, "Why would they send it if it wasn't? They're already screwed."

I glance at Paul and turn away, "If we don't figure this out we all are."

...

[POV Paul Marion]

"What is Murkoff's policy regarding complaints?" Alex asks as I come up for air. The pain in my eye is back and it's made talking more of a challenge with each passing minute,

"Offical Murkoff policy protects any employee filing a complaint." I explain,

"Unofficial policy is extreme prejudice. Squeaky wheels get greased."

Alex raises his eyebrows at this, "You don't mean killed do you?"

"Not often. Shame and ruination usually do the trick." Oftentimes whistleblowers killed themselves. Those cases, when they killed themselves, were the easier ones. At least they saved us the trouble of doing the deed ourselves.

"I'm sure they do."

...


	4. Chapter 4

[POV: Pauline Glick]

"Murkoff HR forwarded us the email." I say, as I pause to replace my injured arm on the side of my chair. "That talk about OSHA... potential litigation."

"Yes," Gary says, "we were very concerned about that."

"So were we. I know a veiled threat when I see one."

"Good thing you sent it to us." I smile, "Veiled threats are my whole M.O."

"So," Gary motions to his empty class and within seconds Jeff is gone, glass in hand, presumably to fill it with something stronger. Whatever it is he's going to need it for what I have to tell him. "Naturally you investigated?"

"Paul and I started looking through Mount Massive's Internet logs. They had a bunch of them and we looked through every one. But whoever posted the complaint had covered their tracks. We didn't find a thing."

Gary frowns at this; HR always hates it when complaints go unresolved. A personal issue was, after all, an HR issue. And nothing was more delicate than keeping the grunts in line, "Nothing, Ms. Glick?" he asks.

"Nothing."

Jeff chooses this moment to reappear with Gary's drink, which he gingerly places next to him, "Thank you Roger." Gary says. My eyes flit to Jeff who, once again, takes his seat between us, silent as ever. _So it's Roger is it?_ I think. _Interesting_. _And what other secrets do you have Roger?_ I trace a fingernail along my chin with my good arm, pondering this before Gary brings me back to the topic at hand, "What did you do then Ms. Glick?"

"I got curious about what Murkoff was so intent on hiding." I say, still looking at Roger. His eyes flit to me at the mention of 'hiding'. We exchange a look but he, expressionless and saying nothing, turns away. _Damn_ I was never very good at this. For me, mind games were always a problem that didn't want to be solved. That was… someone else's area of expertise. But could he crack Roger? I wonder... "I left Marion with the logs" I continue "and I took a trip underground."

Deep underground.

...

Three hours later and Paul and I have uncovered little from the logs to shed light on the situation. There's a memo by a security guard in the prison ward, which makes a passing reference to a fight between two prisoners on the basketball court but little else to suggest anything wrong; let alone any serious security failures. Whoever sent the complaint to HR it's obvious they covered their tracks well. Very well. And it's driving me up the wall. Paul's incessant humming as he slowly meanders through the logs, as if lost in a forest, doesn't help matters either. It only heightens my agitation. I barely resist the urge to tell Paul to shut up as he hums another stanza of the Andy Griffith Show theme song. I think it's something he does for his kid and it's most likely an old habit by now. But I don't care, I need to think. There must be some way to trace that email. Think!

I begin pacing around the room, past the rows of desktops and filing cabinets and back again, to calm my nerves. It's not working. Twenty minutes later I still have no idea who sent the complaint but I do have a few clues. For one thing it couldn't have been any of the lower level staff, the grunts. The leak was too smooth, too well done to be performed with no paper trail let alone an ID, to be performed by a mere security guard. Only someone with extensive networking knowledge, with day-to-day interactions around the hospital could pull it off. Someone with clearance. Who could have that kind of clearance? I ponder this for a time before the crushing reality hits me like a freight train. A huge number of people could. The doctors, the orderlies, the maids, the administrators, the administrative assistants, the stockholders, the techs... Yes, especially the techs. I smile, why didn't I think of them earlier? A tech was a perfect fit for this kind of inside job. They had the clearance, the access, and they certainly had the skills. Any tech that could work for Murkoff could easily figure out how to bump an email through a few dozen onion routers, concealing their identity and escaping any repercussions in the process.

But two questions still nag at me. Even if the complaints had weight who would send such an email? And why? I chuckle at this, now that's a good question... who would risk it all? What could they have seen, no, experienced, that drove them to break protocol and email HR? The email wasn't written by a desperate man, let alone someone scared, no the tone wasn't right. It was cold, calculating, and above all, threatening. If you go after me I won't hesitate to strike back. Yes, while benign on the surface theirs was an email written by someone with information, information which if revealed to the outside would give Murkoff a much greater headache than a spat of litigation.

Suddenly I recall a conversation I had with one of the administrators a few days back, shortly after HR notified us of the complaint. He mentioned something... I frown trying to recall what he said. Oh yes, now I remember. He had said something about experiments conducted deep below ground, in extreme secrecy, what was it again?

 _Now Ms. Glick, I can't tell you what they're doing down there. That would be breaking the rules! Do you want me out of a job? But if you knew... oh Ms. Glick if you only knew... down there is more litigation than you'd see in a lifetime in the world. One hundred feet below is Murkoff's greatest treasure and their dirtiest secret. Maybe someday you'll live to see it. I just hope you're not on the other side of the glass when you do... Ha-ha..._

That's what it was. Experiments that endangered anyone who came into contact with them, doctors and patients alike. More litigation than you'd see in a lifetime could that be what the email was referring to? I sigh and glance at Paul; he's still going through the security logs, finding nothing. It's a waste of time if there ever was one however necessary. Perhaps he'll uncover something by chance, but I doubt it.

Now seems like as good a time as any to explore other avenues. And at last I know where to start.

"I'm going to have a look around." I say. Unsurprisingly, Paul doesn't respond. He's too wrapped up in the logs. Not that it matters; he couldn't follow me even if he wanted to. He doesn't have the clearance.

I walk down the long, drab hall of the administration block in search of the lobby. That's where the elevator is and, as I remember, the only direction it goes is down. I'm certain it's the right way to go. How many other elevators only go down anyway? I turn a corner and glimpse a sign at the end of the hall. It's labeled ELEVATOR in bold black letters with an arrow pointing to the left. I follow and in short order I find myself showing my ID to a guard. He's heavily armed, covered to the toe in Kevlar and a machine gun in his hand, and standing a few feet from the elevator. I don't need any more confirmation than this to know I'm going in the right direction.

The guard raises his free arm and points a laser in my eyes. Probably checking for hepatitis I figure. The yellow discoloring around the iris would give anyone away, especially with the aide of that laser. He holds it there for a few seconds but sees nothing unusual. Having passed this little test the guard steps back and motions to a scanner near the elevator door.

"Scan your ID through there ma'am." he says, "It's for the logs."

I scan my ID. There's a _ping!_ sound and the elevator door slides open. I walk in and press the down arrow, the only button on the panel. To my slight surprise, nothing happens.

"You'll need a key for that lady." one of the guards says. He gives me a toothy grin and pulls out a large, irregularly shaped key from his vest pocket. I look below the panel and notice the keyhole. Ah, of course. "Going down?" he asks, as if that were a question.

I nod. He turns the key in the lock and the door squeals to a close. "It's a long way down y'know." the guard says, glancing at my breasts, "One hundred and twenty two feet..."

Creep. I resist the urge to kick him in the balls as he ogles me. His partner might get very upset if I did. I don't doubt that I can take them but even the smallest incident created a mountain of paperwork at Murkoff. And nothing made the executives more upset than paperwork. So I put up with the man for the duration of the ride and focus my energies on the task at hand.

 _What could Murkoff be hiding?_


	5. Chapter 5

[P.O.V. Pauline Glick]

I'm standing in front of a massive Plexiglas chamber, one of many in a series of white, steel rimmed catacombs, which comprise the world underneath the hospital. There's a man in the chamber, a huge hulking mass of man at six and a half feet high with biceps the size of tree trunks and a chest as think as a grizzly's. However his wounds, both on the outside and in, mar his impressive physical appearance. He is hairless; the curly blond locks that adorned his head when I first encountered him at Spindletop have been cruelly shaved leaving red marks along his scalp. His is eyes, once a cold, winter blue are also changed; they are glazed over, unseeing and unknowing.

He does not notice me.

Blood from several small lacerations trickles down his chest and arms; it flows freely as he's caged, naked, like an animal. There are no furnishings in his prison save for a small hole at a corner of the chamber, the function of which I know without guessing. He has no privacy in the place and it's taken its toll on him. Whatever dignity he had, even as the vicious man that he was is long gone. As is, apparently, any pretense of civility, which is made apparent as, he bares his teeth and growls at me, flexing his muscles as he does so.

"I can smell you..." he growls, his breath coming in short gasps of air, "Little pig..."

I stare at him as he paces by my position in front of the Plexiglas and turns away. I cannot believe the man, no the beast, behind the Plexiglas is a former Murkoff employee, Chris Walker. At least that's what the name, faintly etched into the glass, reads. I'm taken aback as Walker suddenly raises his hands and, screaming, slams them into the Plexiglas. I watch, in a state of curiosity and fear, as Walker heaves in agony from the blow and steps back. Other than his fingerprints there's no trace of his assault on the glass.

"Little pig..." He groans. "Where are you?"

I cannot believe it's really him, a man I talked to and then shot a short time ago... he certainly looks a lot different without hair I think. What a pathetic sight. Murkoff certainly took care of him. I'm about to move on before a voice calls after me,

"Impressive am I right?" the voice asks.

It's a man. I barely have time to turn around before a tall, athletic, well dressed man with slicked back hair and a permanent smirk appears before me, "Jeremy Blaire, executive vice president of global project development." he offers his hand and shakes it vigorously, "And you're Pauline Glick, insurance mitigation department." he grins, "We meet at last."

"I don't remember being introduced." I say slowly, pulling away from the handshake.

Blaire flashes a predatory smile, "I try to stay well informed." he says.

He probably saw my name come up when I swiped my ID by the elevator I think. But I'm far less disturbed by Blaire's preemptive knowledge than I am by the man behind the Plexiglas. The litigation practically writes itself. No wonder someone threatened to call in the feds I think. But Blaire doesn't seem bothered. He doesn't even notice the creature right in front of him, assuming he ever did. Vice President of Murkoff Global was an important position, and great men like Blaire don't have time for trifles like ethics. That's what HR is for.

"Then I assume you know why I'm here?" I ask.

"Of course."

"There was a complaint..."

Blaire laughs, "I know Ms. Glick."

I glance at Walker who has seemingly recovered from his assault on the Plexiglas. He's reaching towards us, making a choking motion with his fingers as he does so. Well, I think, the psycho in him is certainly still there. That much, at least, is not a surprise.

"You guys have been doing some interesting work," I say, "When we dropped this guy off two months ago he was... human."

"Yes," Blaire says tritely, "I'm afraid 'human' isn't so precise a term as it used to be."

"You call this human?" I ask, as Walker, as if on cue, tears a thin strip of flesh from his nose. More blood.

"Mr. Walker is a murderer Ms. Glick." Blaire says, "A serial killer. You handled his case, naturally I'm sure you're familiar with his brutal nature?"

"Yes -"

"Yes, poor Walker. Such a _brutal_ man." Blaire shakes his head in mock pity, "But brutal men need treatment Ms. Glick. Treatment for the body, and treatment for the soul," he says running his hand down the glass. "difficult as it may be to accept it."

"You're saying?"

"Well treatment sometimes has to be applied in a… harsh manner." Blaire continues, "Oh don't get me wrong Ms. Glick, I'm not a sadist. But some patients are more reluctant than others to enter the program. Some of the patients are, shall we say, more problematic than others?" he smiles, "Our friend Walker here, is such a patient. He requires certain measures."

"What kind of measures?" I ask tentatively.

"This little facility for one." Blaire says, "And other things of course. Psychotherapy and all that." He seems to sense my discomfort as he turns to me and strikes an even tone, "Come now Ms. Glick. Considering his crimes, wouldn't you say he's getting precisely the kind of _treatment_ he deserves?"

"You call this treatment?"

Blaire smiles, "Certainly."

I look off into space and say nothing. It's not my place. "Mr. Blaire, there was a complaint -" I start, eager to move the conversation to more relevant territory.

"You know," Blaire interrupts, "I'm starting to wonder what you're doing down here," he paces to the edge of Walker's cage and turns back to me, "Ms. Glick."

There's the question. I knew he'd ask it sooner or later, I may have the clearance to be down here but I'm not supposed to know that. No one is supposed to know any more than necessary. Thankfully the lines in the sand aren't as clear for insurance mitigation. "I'm here to investigate -"

"All possible leads." Blaire finishes for me, "Yes, yes, I thought as much. So naturally you come here" he gestures grandly, "to our secret little abode?"

"There was no information in the logs, on the complaint." I say. "I thought it prudent to have a look around."

"So you did." Blaire smirks, "And look at what we've created!" he says, turning to Walker, "A biological miracle! But there is more Ms. Glick, much more. In this facility we have created a being which is neither human nor beast, solid nor liquid. Not even a gas. Yet it is incredibly powerful! Ahhh," Blaire exhales, "it is our latest invention in biological security. And it's worth more to this company than you could possibly imagine." Blaire pauses and stands by the glass. A silence ensues, but it is short lived, "Tell me Ms. Glick," he says, "Where is your partner?"

"He's still in the administration bloc." I explain, "He doesn't have the clearance to be down here."

"Marion is new."

"Yes, yes he is." I say, "If I could," I ask, as tactfully as possible, "what is Murkoff's 'latest invention' in biological security?"

Blaire smiles and reaches out to me, "Would you like to see it Ms. Glick?"

I meet his gaze and put on a smile of my own, "Yes... yes I would."

...

"Welcome, welcome, welcome!" a friendly voice says as we walk into the brightly office. A tall man with an untamed mane of dark brown hair, light brown eyes, and the face of a used car salesman appears before us. He's dressed in brown and purple with a great blue scarf, silk by the look of it, draped around the base of his neck. He reaches out and shakes each of our hands vigorously. "Rick's my name and biz dev is my game!" he says lamely, laughing at his own joke as he strides back to his desk. "I mean _I am_ an executive." he adds, "Please have a seat!"

Paul and I are both taken back at his manner. Paul gives me a look and leans in, "Are you sure this is Trager?" he whispers.

I watch the man, 'Rick' as he calls himself, flop down in his chair and reach for one of the golf clubs at the side of his desk and start lazily twirling it in his hand. When we don't move he looks at us expectantly, "Well aren't you going to sit down? Come on! Have a seat! I just got those chairs," he gestures to the two leather-backed chairs with the club, "from Australia. They're made with real hide y'know!"

"Yes," I say, already irritated, "I think he's Trager."

"You sure about that Pauline?" Paul murmurs, "Maybe one of the patients escaped."

"Paul..."

Paul gives me a knowing look, "You never know."

"What are you guys waiting for?" Trager whines, "I don't have all day. I'm a busy man! I like to be efficient!"

Paul sighs, "Let's get this over with partner." I couldn't agree more.

We take our seats.

"That's better!" Trager beams and the golf club disappears, "All right! Down to business!" he says, looking from me to Paul and back again, "What can I do for you?"

"We're from insurance mitigation Mr. Trager." I say, handing him my card. Trager gives it a passing glance before looking back at me,

"Insurance mitigation?" he asks, eyes wide, "Oh-ho! I've heard of you! What do you want with me?"

"Well Mr. Trager we have a small problem..."

"A problem eh?" Trager laughs and leans back luxuriously in his chair, "Hey I'm happy to help. I'm a team player and I want you guys on team Rick." once again he smiles at us. It's a cheap smile. The kind of smile you could find at any used car lot back in the world, the kind to offer false promises and lure you in, hook, line, and sinker. I realize in an instant that this man isn't crazy. He's a sleazebag. The Richard Nixon poster on his ego wall, labeled I'M NOT A CROOK, I'M A LEADER, says as much. "You guys want some coffee? Or..." Trager leans across the table and winks at me, "some kind of wop drink?"

I wink back at him. I can play his game anytime, "No thanks." I say softly. Paul also declines although it's obvious from his haggard appearance that he's exhausted.

Trager laughs, "Ah well, I didn't think so. No wops this time! I can say that, by the way, since I'm Italian on my mother's side. Anyway," he again leans back in his swivel chair and twirls around, "I'm going to have some coffeeeeeeees!"

I watch, stone-faced as Trager spins until he finally stops and looks at us bemusedly. The man isn't even dizzy. "Denise!" Trager yells, "Denise!"

"Yes Mr. Trager?" a voice asks tiredly. Must be the maid, I think.

"Be a buddy and bring us some coffees!"

"Yes Mr. Trager."

Trager thanks Denise and properly situates himself at his desk, "Sorry about the spinning there. I used to do that all the time when I was a kid. Some things never get old..." he sighs, "Denise will be a few minutes with the coffees. She's such a doll."

"Thanks Mr. Trager," Paul says, "But this complaint -"

"Complaint?!" Trager exclaims, "There aren't any complaints around here!"

"Well," Paul says as patiently as he can, "we got one. I.T. is saying it's from your office."

"From here?"

"From here."

"Impossible!" Trager laughs, "Everyone loves working here. Isn't that right Denise?"

"Yes Mr. Trager." Denise replies, somewhere down the hall where she is, no doubt, making coffees. Something tells me she doesn't share Trager's enthusiasm for corporate, but that's none of my business. I always detested office politics. And wasting time...

"Somebody doesn't." I say and hand him a printed copy of the email.

Trager takes it without a word and reads. Within seconds a frown appears on his face and by the time he's finished he's sagging at his chair and tugging at his collar. Like a drowning man gasping for air.

"Quitters... I can't stand quitters..." he mutters, almost angrily, before he sits up and hands the email back to me. He doesn't seem perturbed. Even the smile has reappeared. Somehow we are back to square one, just like that. "Complaints, complaints, what's the big deal?" Trager says, "If someone doesn't want to be a buddy that's a job for someone else to take care of, not me. Only the best work for ol' Rick!"

"That's why we're here Mr. Trager." I say irritably. This act is getting old fast but Trager keeps going,

"And I'm glad you are!" he says, "It's always good to have some company, if y'know what I mean." he adds, glancing at me. I'm tempted to slap him before Paul, mercifully, jumps in,

"About the complaint, IT says the only employees with access to Deepweb would have to be from corporate. Nowhere else Mr. Trager."

Trager chuckles and shakes his head at this, "You guys know the origin of the word 'corporate'?" When neither of us responds he presses forward, "'corporate' from the Latin 'corpus', also the root of 'corpse', because a corporation is a body, and any weakness to that body is a wound that must be staunched..." he pauses, "cauterized if necessary."

"I couldn't agree more." I say.

"Well you certainly look like you know how to take care of your body."

I stare at Trager, mouth half open. I want to say something but nothing comes to mind. He's trying to flatter me but it just comes off as creepy. It's just another part of his game, I know. But it catches me off guard. I force a smile at him and study the floor. No one speaks for a moment before Paul, once again, bridges the gap. This time with a fit of coughing,

"Let's stay on topic..." he says, glancing nervously at me.

Trager seems to take the hint and backs off, for now. "Of course," he says, and just like that we're back to buisness, "Look this is corporate right? Our success or failure depends on how much money we have at any given time. How much we save in the budget. Money makes this place go 'round. Now let me ask you this," Trager says, laying his arms on the table in a diplomatic posture, "how would anyone make money sending vaguely threatening emails about my department performing poorly?" Trager shakes his head, "Not a cent."

Paul brings out his pen and paper. It's question time, "How much have you cut the security budget?" he asks.

"As I said, my job is minimizing expense. I'm sure you two can relate. And believe me, nothing is as expensive as security. I mean," Trager grins, "don't get me wrong; I never met-a-data I didn't like..."

Paul and I collectively groan at this awful attempt at humor but Trager doesn't notice. He's still talking, "but sometimes you gotta make cuts. Get rid of the 'dead wood, you know what I mean? I create efficiencies. That makes us all safer. Security changes with the times but money will always be money. And you can't have good security unless you're making good money."

Paul scribbles something down on his pad, "Interesting..." he says, as he leans over and shows me what he's written. It reads: This guy's as dirty as hoboshit. I exchange a look with Paul but say nothing. I'm too busy trying not to laugh. _Hoboshit?_ Only Paul would think to come up with that. And he's not wrong. Trager, who is now examining himself in a handheld mirror, is far from suspicion. Maybe, I think, it would be worth investigating him personally... just to get a better idea of what's been going on around here. Trager wouldn't suspect a thing anyway, he's too busy playing playboy with me. He'd probably take any interest on my part as a compliment...

But before I can say anything the side door opens and a heavy-set woman dressed in maid's garmets and headdress enters, carrying a tray loaded with silverware. It's Denise with the coffees.

"Our coffees!" Trager beams, leaving the mirror, "Thank you dear."

As Denise sets the tray down at the edge of the desk I decide to make my move. "Mr. Trager, forgive me for being forward," I say, "but I've never been to this part of Colorado before and I'd love somebody to show me around."

Trager looks puzzled, "You're saying...?"

I smile, "Would you have dinner with me tonight?"


End file.
